Better Than I Know Myself
by TotallyUtterlySherlocked
Summary: Sherlock has finally pushed John over the edge. But Sherlock doesn't take his doctor's leaving well at all. Slash, established Johnlock. VERY dark and angsty, you have been warned! Read triggers inside, please!
1. Remembering

**A/N: Oh howdy all! **

**I've had the idea for this fic for a looooong time. This isn't necessarily a song!fic, but it IS based on the wonderful Adam Lambert song of the same name. **

**TRIGGER WARNING: ATTEMPTED SUICIDE, PREVIOUS ATTEMPTS MENTIONED, POSSIBLE SELF-HARM LATER. IF ANY OF THE PREVIOUS THINGS BOTHER YOU, PLEASE FIND ANOTHER FIC TO READ!**

**Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle own everything. I do not. Please don't sue me.**

* * *

The flat was dark. Completely and utterly black.

He sat on the sofa, more like a statue than a living, breathing human. His hands were not steepled beneath his chin. The brilliant hard drive lay bowed as he sat rigidly upright.

On the coffee table in front of him lay a razor. Next to it rested a small pile of ordinary kitchen knives.

And next to him, laying heavily on the cushion, there was John's revolver.

Both long fingered hands ruffled his hair in an agitated way. His pale eyes were wild, almost feral looking.

He raised his head, gnashed teeth together as he drummed pale fingers against his knee. When he reached out to take the razor, his left hand trembled violently. He glared at it in fury, as though it had wronged him. Gripping his wrist tightly with his right hand proved useless; it trembled as much as the left.

Sherlock took deep, shuddering breaths. _What on Earth was happening to him?_ He knew, of course he knew. But that didn't make it any easier to understand.

The consulting detective shut his eyes, entering his mind palace. He took only a stitch of comfort in its familiar structure. Because he knew, that the more time he spent here, the more likely he was to enter the wing he had recently created for-

A stab of white hot pain tore through his chest, drawing out a cry of anguish like Sherlock was a dying animal. He opened his eyes, blinking; desperate to rid himself of the tears that had gathered there. Taking in deep, shuddering breaths, his fingers clenched so tightly around the razor that his knuckles went white. He allowed his eyes to slip closed.

Now was time for remembering, to catalog every piece of information he had regarding John Watson. Time to bring the pain forward so he could numb it, quiet it.

It was the only thing he could do to keep himself from shattering.

* * *

From the moment he had met John, he had begun erecting a piece of his mind palace specifically for the ex-army doctor. He had originally created a small room, more of a closet really. But as time went on and Sherlock learned more and more and started to become...attached to John, the closet grew to a hall, then a room, and finally an entire wing.

And as the space grew, so too did Sherlock's feelings for John. This made him insanely uncomfortable, but soon enough he'd told John and they had been together ever since.

But now, Sherlock was certain that the whole thing was now in tatters. He had done it, he knew he had. He knew it from the second he'd opened his mouth.

And yet, the fact that their relationship was ruined still seemed incomprehensible. Every few moments his ears strained, thinking he heard the sound of footsteps. Every time, he was disappointed. Logically, of course, he knew he was being ridiculous. Mycroft had told him that "caring is not an advantage".

That, he realized, was the biggest piece of _bullshit_ he had ever heard in his life.

Caring when it came to John was the biggest advantage he'd ever had.

* * *

He let out a gasp of pain when his eyes opened. The razor was still gripped in his hand, so hard his fingers throbbed. He paid that no mind. Violently, he rolled up his sleeve to his elbow, gazing unfeelingly along the great expanse of unmarred flesh.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he pressed the blade to his forearm and watched himself bleed. He had always felt better, calmer, after these sessions.

And as he stopped the movement of the razor, just above his wrist, he did feel slightly calmer.

But better? No. Not better.

Blood trickled onto the floor, yet he made no effort to stem its flow.

Honestly, he wished he'd cut deeper. Then, he could stop this guilt, this pain, this...this absolute _torture _of sentiment.

He could stop feeling.

Forever.

* * *

**A/N**: **Guys...wow. I did** **not expect it to get so angst-y so fast. It just kind of...did? So, um, yeah. PLEASE tell me what you think, I haven't done angst or Johnlock. Hope you enjoyed it so far! **


	2. Rage

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews on the first chapter, everyone! I certainly hope you all continue to enjoy the story!**

**TRIGGER WARNINGS: SELF-HARM, SUICIDE ATTEMPT AND PREVIOUS ATTEMPTS MENTIONED. IF THOSE THINGS BOTHER YOU, PLEASE DON'T READ THIS STORY!**

**Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle own everything; I don't. Please don't sue me!**

* * *

John wasn't quite sure how long he'd been wandering about London.

Considering how far he was from Baker Street, he figured it had to be a few hours. At least three, judging by how dark it was getting. Ordinarily he'd be concerned about not being able to find his way home, but at this point, Baker Street could no longer be called home. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hissing out a breath through his nose.

The ex-army doctor had been doing his best to push the events leading up to this evening jaunt out of his mind, but now it seemed like the harder he tried to forget, the faster the memories of the afternoon flooded his brain. He shook his head furiously. "No, get a bloody _grip_, John." He tugged his jacket tighter around him, wishing he'd grabbed a heavier coat before he stormed out.

He almost smiled. Like he'd have even thought of that.

John rubbed his hands together furiously, watching his breath create the lightest mist in the air. He was beginning to wonder where he'd stay tonight. He didn't even have any of his valuables with him. The doctor sighed heavily. He sure as hell wasn't going back to the flat to deal with Sherlock. No, definitely not.

* * *

_3 HOURS EARLIER..._

"This," grumbled John as he slammed the door shut. "May quite possibly be the worst day I've had in a long time."

His lover barely glanced at him over steepled fingers. "Why?" This was asked in a tone that implied Sherlock didn't particularly care about the answer, but that he was merely asking to be polite. Good, then. At least John had taught him to _feign_ interest in things he didn't care about.

"I was just at Harry's." John began, firing up the kettle and then moving to stand in the kitchen entryway, leaning against the wall with arms folded.

"And let me guess," sighed Sherlock.

"She's not sober," the pair spoke in unison. John sighed. "How'd you know?" Sherlock snorted. "John, really. I don't need to deduce _that_. Only a certifiable idiot would fail to realize that fact."

The blond felt his face harden. "What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, his expression impassive. "I mean just what I said, John. Harry is a chronic alcoholic. She's said, in the time I've known you, that she's 'sober'," Here he used air quotes to emphasize. "At least half a dozen times. I don't understand why you keep believing it. She's not only an alcoholic but evidently, she's also a compulsive liar. Even SHE knows she won't stay sober."

John's jaw clenched harder the longer Sherlock spoke. By the end of the detective's monologue, he was quite certain his teeth were going to shatter in his mouth. "How dare you," he gritted out in no more than a whisper.

He strode heavily to the door and grabbed his jacket.

Sherlock looked baffled. "John? Where are you going?" He seemed genuinely confused, and ordinarily, John would turn around and the rage would be forgotten.

But this time, the asshole had gone too far.

"Out," John snapped. "Don't wait up,"

And the door slammed shut.

* * *

Even now, hours later, the doctor still couldn't think about Sherlock's words without seeing red. He growled and clenched his fists. "What a goddamned FUCKING idiot," He tipped his head back to direct the words at the now blackened London sky.

Despite his rage, John also knew he at least needed to go back to get some clothes and other necessities for the night.

And so, with a deliberately slow and measured breath, he started off in the general direction of Baker Street.

* * *

**A/N: I'd like to thank all my readers and reviewers so far! Your critiques help me immensely, :) John is a very difficult character to write for me; it was hard to make him so angry as he's so patient! Unfortunately, I cannot post lyrics with this fic, I am terribly sorry. I'd love to be able to, it would add a lot, I think. But I'm sure you'd all prefer me to leave this fic up, right?**

**DFTBA guys, :)**


	3. Repentance

**A/N: Thank you for reading this fic so far, guys! Please review and tell me how you like it/anything you think needs work, etc. I love feedback. **

**I want to take a second to explain why this fic is lacking lyrics. Someone PMed me and informed me that since the lyrics are not mine and are copyrighted, I could not post them or I'd risk my fic being removed. I don't know if this is correct but if someone can tell me for sure that lyrics are OK I will add them back in.**

**Enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle own everything; I do not. Please don't sue me.**

**TRIGGER WARNINGS: Self-harm, attempted suicide (THIS CHAPTER!), previous attempts mentioned.**

* * *

"John, please come home. I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking. I love you, please come back." Sherlock stabbed the End button with his thumb and flung his mobile onto the floor. He'd left five messages (now six) for John and texted the doctor he didn't know how many times.

The marks on his arms were open, red and raw. He'd evidently broken out the knives; there was a thicker, deeper gash on the back of his hand, running horizontally from pinky to thumb. Another gash rested just above his ankle. The detective made a pained groaning noise before hopping to his feet and pacing so frantically that smoke was liable to come from his shoes if he went any faster.

He desperately wanted to delete the argument because now it just repeated itself over and over inside his head. But he couldn't delete anything pertaining to John. Not even those rubbish _Star Wars_ films the doctor made him watch. Suddenly he stoppped. "DAMMIT JOHN!" He stomped his foot like a petulant child after a scolding. "Just come home, please, John, please." Oh good God. He was desperate, wasn't he?" "Talking to myself, this is ridiculous," he muttered, shaking his head violently.

He yanked the skull off the mantletop and glared into it. "Get. Him. HOME." His voice was little more than a growl but he'd gotten his message across.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes, as most know, is not a sentimental man. No, he is a man of logic.

But if any man of logic didn't feel a pang of sadness at a consulting detective's slow breakdown; well, Mycroft Holmes certainly hopes that man is lucky enough to never cross him.

And so, just as he prepared to fire off an angry text to John, he watched the doctor slowly turn and start making his way to Baker Street. He smiled just a little. Reliable, patient John.

Then he glanced at the monitor that showed his younger brother. The smile faded

"Hurry, John."

* * *

He wasn't entirely sure how he'd picked up the revolver. All Sherlock knew was that he was holding it.

He was cradling it, really. Pale eyes gazed at it in near reverence. "Just the lightest pressure," he whispered, running a finger gently along the barrel.

The detective stood there for a few long minutes before he moved to stand in front of the door. Here, he ran into his one and only puzzle of the evening.

He cocked his head to the side and contemplated the gun. Experimentally, he opened his mouth wide and slid the barrel in. Almost immediately he screwed up his face in disgust and instead pressed the barrel, hard, into the space just above his right ear. He'd already checked to make sure it was loaded and that the safety was off.

"I'm sorry, John. Goodbye." He shut his eyes and tightened the hand not holding the gun into a tight fist. And he squeezed the trigger.

* * *

**A/N: OK YEAH. I'm sorry, I had to have this cliffhanger. Please review guys, and, hey?**

**DFTBA, :)**


	4. Reconciliation

**A/N: Hello all! I decided to go ahead and post this to resolve that awful cliffhanger I left you all with. *evil grin***

**DISCLAIMER: Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle own everything; I do not. Please don't sue me.**

**TRIGGER WARNINGS: SELF-HARM, ATTEMPTED SUICIDE AND PREVIOUS ATTEMPTS MENTIONED**

* * *

"JESUS."

John barely had time to blink before his brain comprehended the sight before him. He had, quite literally, just shut the door to the flat and hadn't even taken off his jacket.

Sherlock was standing absolutely motionless, eyes closed, gun pressed to his own head. His finger was millimeters away from the trigger.

"Sherlock, don't you DARE die on me." The doctor strode up to the detective, yanked the gun from his grip, and pressed his mouth quite firmly to Sherlock's.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock let out a gasp of surprise before he made a quiet whimpering noise when John kissed him. Abruptly, Sherlock pulled away and let his hands rest on John's cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak but the words left his brain before he could say them.

Instead, the detective felt tears pooling in his eyes. "John," he choked. The shorter man looked at him fiercely. God, he was _pissed_. Less with Sherlock, more with himself. Scratch that; he was furious that a brilliant man like Sherlock Holmes had the nerve to take himself out of this world just because of a simple man named John Watson.

"Sherlock, I hope you've got a good explanation for this." The brunette shook his head sadly. "John, I thought you'd never come back. No one else ever has."

And with those words, the wind was quite taken out of John's sails. He lead the detective over to the sofa and they both sat, Sherlock laying his head across John's lap.

"Has this happened before?" John asked, slowly, carefully. Sherlock nodded. "Have you ever come this close to actually killing yourself?" Pressing his lips together firmly, Sherlock shook his head. John looked bewildered. "Why this time?" The detective sat up sharply, face the epiphany of horror.

"John, do you really not understand?" John thought for a minute, then he painfully shook his head. Sherlock blinked. He stood and moved to kneel in front of John, taking the doctor's hands in his. "John Watson, I have never loved another human being the way I love you." His voice broke. "The very notion that this relationship we have could end forever..." Sherlock swallowed. "I would rather die than live in a world without you by my side. I am so, so sorry."

John Watson is rarely rendered speechless. Apparently, having his previously sociopathic boyfriend pour out his heart on his knees before him can render the doctor so.

It took a few moments before John collected himself. "Sherlock, I would never leave. Never. I know I get angry, and I know that you know that I have the right to get angry." Here the detective nodded his assent. "But I will never leave."

The doctor took a deep breath. "But Sherlock, if I do get angry, I need you to promise me that you won't try to hurt yourself again. Call me, text me, call Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, _someone_." Another deep breath. "I never, EVER, want to walk into the sight I saw today." _Or something worse,_ he added mentally, shuddering.

Sherlock nodded once more. John sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. He looked exhausted. And, despite himself, the consulting detective stifled a yawn.

His lover smiled at him. "Bed?" Sherlock nodded.

* * *

Once the pair were safely ensconced in bed, Sherlock's head tucked under John's chin, John cleared his throat. "Sherlock?" His voice was quiet; honestly, he expected the detective to already be asleep.

"Mmm?"

"How many times have you tried to commit suicide?" Sherlock turned to look at the doctor in surprise. John bit his lip. "I...want to try to understand," he began. "Sherlock, I want to help you. I never want you to feel like this again."

Seemingly satisfied with the doctor's answer, Sherlock relaxed. "Three," he said finally. "Not including tonight," he clarified, after looking at John's expression.

"When?" John had been reduced to single word answers.

"Once after Mummy died, once when Mycroft left for university, and..." The detective's face twisted in pain. "Once about a week before I met you." He cleared his throat. "I tried to overdose. Thank God Lestrade found me." Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a hint of a smile.

Wordlessly, John gently lifted Sherlock's head off of his chest and rolled to face him. He traced his fingers along the pale man's face, memorizing it. "I never want to stop touching you. I never want to make you feel like you did tonight."

Sherlock smiled. "You won't," And he sounded so damned sure that John was tempted to leave it at that.

"But Sherlock, we need to have some kind of...plan, or something." The detective gave a long-suffering sigh and stretched his arms above his head. John grabbed his wrist, gently, and looked him seriously in the eye.

"I will help you stop the cutting. I will do anything you need to keep that darkness away. But I can only do it if you want the help and if you will try to help me, too."

Sherlock bit his lip and worried it with his teeth. "John, I don't know if I can stop the cutting," he said quietly. "It helps quiet my mind."

John considered this for a few minutes. "I'm not...Sherlock, I'm not asking you to stop right away. I know that'll probably backfire," Sherlock relaxed a bit. "But we ARE going to start finding alternatives, like maybe a good walk outside."

John chuckled when Sherlock's nose wrinkled in distaste. "OK, maybe not a walk then. But we _will_ think of something, Sherlock, I promise."

"Together, right?"

"Always," John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hair.

* * *

**A/N: It's done, guys. Damn, that was hard. **

**I REALLY hope you all liked it, please please review! They make my day, they really do. **


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